Tools of Death
by LawrenceRAMoneybag
Summary: All this destruction, this, vile, impure scourge that has swept us, I long to escape, but I must stay, for my country, for my loved ones, for all of good...  WWI, alternate Penguin Universe
1. Shrapnel

**June 4, 1915**

A sneaky American soldier unloaded himself from a box that contained extra supplies for British forces. It rained slightly, a good drizzle woke up the French and British troops on the battle field, somewhere over between France and Germany. The soldier wiped the sweat and rain from his forehead and stared out on the green and brown battlefield darkened by the cover of the dreary clouds above them. It seemed like the most peaceful thing that ever happened in war, but that was only as tranquil as it could ever get.  
>In the distance, he could hear the bombs and crackles of cannons and rifles of the German empire, dissolving or testing even, on the British and French soldiers, reckless and determined for victory for the common good.<br>The soldier was Skipper, an average Joe that survived well before the war with his best friend a British one. They visited each other before the Great War often in America or Britain. But then everything went dreadful as the stillness before combat came, when the fuse of war was lit at last.  
>Private was the name of his friend. Skipper grew fond of him over the years and they were good friends since then. During the way, they were separated and haven t seen each other from that point.<br>Skipper thought now was a good time to catch up, during battle. He was wrong.

Skipper came to Private, looking around to to see if anyone noticed an extra soldier sneak into a trench in the early bombardment, done on by the special ballistics division that belonged to the British military, the most current artillery division in the entire Allied force.

"Private!" he called down the trench, nobody in the trenched, soldiers, except Private himself, turned to the source of the call.

Some then came his friend, the same person that he said hello to every now and then. He didn t look different at all, even if he had a rank in the military or a rounded helmet that seemed of it.

"Skipper, what are you doing here?" the friend asked.

"I wanted to see victory here in the European state", Skipper answered, trying to sound convincing, knowing that that was't the reason why he was really there.

An awkward silence fell upon the two.

"You wanted to see me, didn t you?" smiled the Briton.

"True, maybe..."

Private laughed and patted his American comrade on the back leading him around the trenches, and showing him his new friends that he met in the beginning of the war. Some where French, spite the fact that he couldn t speak their language.

"Here" Private said, "is Lieutenant Adelbert Kowanski, a smart one I must say actually, he knows a bit of English, French, he used to work with chemicals..." he said, didn t want to spoil what he was working on The smart Frenchman nodded, gripping to his agile weapon used only for snipers.

"This is Ricardo Bernare" introduced the Briton, pointing to an average sized person with the same style hat of Kowanski, a dark grey kepi, Skipper could tell they were both French. You can call him Rico though, that s what everyone calls him by Rico stared, then after a moment took his hand out as a friendly gesture, signaling a handshake. Skipper nodded and shook his hand in response.  
>After introducing, they heard the bugle, as if was just in time, for rallying and attack.<p>

It was already raining when he met them at the trench, now, the rain had become heavier now, no longer a slight drizzle but a regular storm, though, for some reason, lacking thunder and lightning. The four crawled out from the trenches and assembled into a double line, a long line. Skipper, not knowing really where to go, followed Private and stood right to his next. The Brigade Colonel spoke, giving the force their orders, as Skipper thought, 'I wonder where those two Frenchmen are ', he looked to his right, say Kowanski, and Rico in perfect lining right next to him. Skipper swallowed as the brigade began to move forward, in a perfect solid line. It was an outdated tactic, line engagement, he thought, 'wasn t it abandoned after the Civil War?.'

The line was then hit and pestered by bullets and bombs, shrapnel included. Luckily, the four managed to fight and retreat unharmed.  
>Once they were back at camp, they were all but determined now, frightened by the risk that they may be killed in action the next day, especially with the line infantry, it was risky and outdated.<p>

* * *

><p>After at least a month of idling and being quarantined to the rear, in early July was their next engagement. The month had everything between curing the wounded, to small birthday parties even. War rations where moderate, a good egg and bread, sometimes bacon, was served. Sweet curd was rare, so was cereal, as well was milk. But that was alright though, you would soon learn to get used to it.<br>Surprisingly, it was still the hard rain that kept the regiments and brigades awake those nights.  
>When the bugle sounded, he expected a line engagement, he was right.<br>The bugle call sounded, and they went from a relaxing lot to a disciplined group of military soldiers. But as soon as they formed up, they scattered instead, to make them harder targets.  
>Here was a new tactic, getting rid of Napoleanic strikes with massive infantry lines. This was a new war, with Machine Gunners and sometimes even airplanes zooming in and firing upon the ground troops. This was war. This was hell.<br>Skirmish lines became scattered, brigade lines with flank support became scattered, it was a new and confusing thing for the well trained men that have never done scattering before. Most of them were saved though by the doing, it was a good fight and they penetrated the enemy lines, finally dissolving the ones who was dissolved them previously. Victory lasted bittersweet when they figured the casualties. The brigade colonel was dead, along with his successor. Captain Rosen took command of what was left of the men and let camp start in the new trench. It was only an hour when they figured another enemy trench was down yonder, taunting and booing. Tempted already, Rosen's superior, Brigadier Halleck, commanded the division down in attack. Rosen was completely against any thought of further attack, but court martial would only be the reward for him. So with one, pained expression and his sabre in his hand, he had to order a general downhill brigade advance.  
>The soldiers scattered down the hill like ants, and in one swift moment, Skipper heard the thunder, and he felt the lightning.<p>

An artillery shell smashed the four into a trench, and then there was another explosion that came just right after, artillery and shrapnel, the most dangerous of all.  
>Rubbing their foreheads, they all sat sighing, slightly wounded, against the wall of the trench they where blasted in. Private immediately turned his attention to Skipper, which shocked him more than ever, Kowanski and Rico even looked. Skipper bled from the lungs and torso, three pieces of metal stuck inside him like blades, shrapnel actually hit him. At that moment, Private began to tear up.<p>

"No Private, don t cry I m alright", the American said weakly.

"Skipper" Private said shaking his head, "No not you ,Skipper!"

"Please Don t doubt me, Private, I ll be fine", Skipper said with blood already dripping out the side of his mouth, closing his eyes, drawing the last breaths

Kowanski teared slightly, so Ricardo did not tear much, he saluted, but only one tear coming down from to scar. They had known Skipper so well the past month, they didn t want to lose him then and there.

"Don t doubt me, please, I ll be-" Skipper spoke, right before he coughed out his own blood.

The sound of battle still raged on above them, and the rain still fell in ambience.

"What date is it?" the American asked.  
>"July the Fourth", Private answered, his voice faltering.<br>"Well tell Uncle Sam, and Mother Liberty..." Skipper never finished the sentence. But the battle still raged on, as if nothing happened. The combat continued, in the mad world of fighting...


	2. Barrage and Mine

**July 4, 1917**

There was a drift of hot air coming from the clear sunny skies in the outskirts of the French/German Border. Caught in the drift where papers with orders, tags, that where left behind, forgotten, or misplaced. Capsules of a story to tell of it of ht past. Diaries and journals of men where strewn about the great and open trenches, zigzagging on the barren, left fields of a previous battle. Sickening corpses of troops lay unattended on the battlefield, in the trenches, never to be picked up as they grew more tainted day by day. The sight was overall not-worthy for the sight of the common man, nor soldiery, as it haunted them to this day. A lonely rifle and helmet placed in one trench seemed so peaceful, a year ago told the tale of the two, but it was better if the artifacts where left alone, to bask in the glorious summer sun.  
>30 miles away, battle. Battle in a forest, nearly dry enough to see a mile in front of you without trees blocking your line of vision. The fierce combat between the Allies and the German Empire, ran about, fighting, blood, and gore, human shields, bullets whizzing inside bodies. The unholy sound of <strong>total war<strong>. Enemies clash with bayonets in necks and fists in mouths. But when that was all over, they went back to their camp after the fight when one or the other called camping truce overnight. Camp. The peaceful retreat from a hell that erupted in the hate of others. The sounds of an exhausted brigade followed the sounds of cooking dinner. Camp, wonderful camp.

Lt. Col. Private of the Royal Rifles sat down around a fire awaiting cooked bacon and a cracker. A large hard cracker, hardtack. He thought it had been abandoned since the late 1800 s. But he thanked for it sure enough, for bacon itself was rare in total war. Rations were hard to get. Hardtack was common, but as with it s namesake, it was hard as tack. Men often used the end of their rifles to crack it in half. _Only in half_. That was how hard it was. Another common thing was for hardtack to be dipped in water, making it softer. More pleasing? Maybe.

"It s been a long time" , said Kowanski, a comrade of Private, his best friend now since the tragic event that happened a year ago. The Frenchman was taught English fully by the brevetted Lt. Col. It has has the only reply, a crackle in the voice of Private along with the crackle of a steady fire, heating pork and egg. A soldier sat down on a log around the fire, a wounded soldier who had his left leg in a tourniquet, using his rifle as a supporter.

"He used to say to me, always keep going", said the broken Briton.

Kowanski nodded, inhaled, exhaled.

"I have kept going, and probably so had he" , continued Private, already choking up.

"I would not blame you really. He was a good person", the French man stated.

"I also used to visit him in Riley, South Carolina, before the war... his house was the most liveliest in the block. I can only imagine what his death brought to his home, but it hurts me too much to think of those thoughts... too much..."

The fire burning noises was the only noise between each sentence, except the occasional talks between the other soldiers in the camp, unattached to their own.

"He also used to visit me sometimes in Woking..., after tensions rose in Europe, he stopped, mailing me it would be too dangerous... if only things didn't happen that way..."

"Don t question fate. It s what brings the world together. Decides what s right. Don t doubt-" Kowanski didn t finish.

"Don t doubt me he said. I didn t, but he was turned passed..."

It was an odd silence. But it lead to the rest and sleep of the soldiers. The next day they would need the energy.

* * *

><p>The line for battle was formed as usual, with the common scattering of men amongst the field, charging at the enemy with the strength that always gave the Germans a good scare, making them fall back once in a while. Amongst the ones who where completely hostile in the fighting was Ricardo Bernare, or, Rico. He usually yelled and scream as he charged with his bayonet attached to the end of his rifle and immediately stabbed the first German he saw. This preceded an onslaught of officers and soldiery that resulted into on or sometimes even more eyes of the enemy on the bayonet of Rico Bernare. The fighting began with the beginning dash of fire of the German in their trenches, a defense that was usual in the Great War. After firing, the second row behind the first German row fired. Which after, they charged out of the trenches to counterattacked.<br>But from that point, it was completely different. A point in the battle that would change whether the Britons and French would have victory of defeat. There was an explosion, a yell, and the sound of a whizzing artillery shell.

Out of the silence, the then captain, now brigade colonel Rosen yelled, "Mortar!" . The call of urgency was followed by the artillery shell falling a yard from a soldier, summing up his life by literally blowing off his limbs and head. Tearing his body in ways unimaginably cruel and bloody. The officer s cry of distress was taken to great importance and truthfulness.

There was gonna be hell on the battle field. And it's demons are in the mood for kamikaze.

Rosen was often near the standard bearer, lifting high his sabre and shouting orders, miraculously surviving, not having a scratch on him, unlike the poor standard bearer.

Of course, the standard bearer was the magnet for shooters, he was too well spotted. And to his dedication for his country, carrying his country's flag, the Union Jack, was fatal. Several shots to the upper torso killed the standard bearer as blood poured from his now open body. He was dead before he hit the ground, slowly falling, his hands slipping off the flag, letting the flag drop.

Suddenly, another soldier ran in, a younger one, around 20, dropped his musket to grasp the falling flag. His devotion to the British standard also cost his dearly. He was pinned down by several bullets. Like his predecessor, he died holding the Union Jack.

The soldiers would not let the flag drop. Man after man went down, trying to hold high the banner of the nation in battle. Colonel Rosen lost 14 brave souls to keep the standard flying.

Soon, finally, the flag fell into a puddle of blood of the men who sacrificed their lives for it.

Rosen himself kept his head low, pacing himself fast, grabbed the soaked emblem, tore it from the stick, carried it high himself with it in his left and sword in the right.

The colours were less eye catching from afar, yet close by Germans saw it as a glorious opportunity to get glory. They tried to take the flag from Rosen but were shot down by the British and French, and sometimes killed by Rosen.

Ricardo Bernare was having his own field day as he tread through the mud of soil and bodies, winning in melees with his comrades.

The cloudy sky was just perfect for the Germans, it was harder to tell where a mortar shell was going for the British and French, and often when they realized they where in a spot of great danger, it was too late. The explosion was followed by being mauled mercilessly by a big fiery heat. And that was the end of you.  
>Private always wondered what the poor chaps who where hit by mortar saw. What do they see? Do they see the fire and heat come toward them in their final second? Do they feel that one gash that sends them off to Heaven or Hell? There was one thing that was certain, thought Private. He was not eager to find out. There, was the largest artillery barrage that the young Private ever faced. More men died in this one drastic charge than other battles in their entirety. Running with his rifle, he stepped on something. He looked down. He saw what he didn t want to see. Something terrible. It was Adelbert Kowanski s kepi, his blue hat slightly sprinkled with the Frenchmen's blood. Then, Private suddenly saw his friend lying down with minor wounds on his chest, but his relief ran red, when he saw the large open wound on Adelbert s stomach, exposing flesh and blood. Private went to aide his still alive though comrade. Kowanski, though badly wounded, got himself up, took it upon himself to support his own with his rifle, even though he was devastatingly weak. After a few seconds, Adelbert fell flat on his back, his eyes nearly closing. Private came, kneeled on the side of the Frenchman. After that, everything went black.<p>

* * *

><p>Kowanski woke up in a cool July 8th, in a low cot with his kepi on. Looked behind his head, a soft pillow.<p>

"Where am I?" he asked himself, staring at a large bloody roll of gauze on his waist.

"You're okay!" Private entered the tent in a happy expression.

Ricardo Bernare, Kowanski s closest friend entered as well with the brigade Commander, Colonel Rosen. The rejoiced, Kowanski was confused though, he couldn t manage to figure out what was going on. So he asked himself, and stopped questioning in his mind.

"What happened?" Kowanski groaned, his eyes closed

"You where hit by a mortar shell, I thought you where going to die, but you survived! Usually men would have much bigger wounds", Private replied.

Adelbert was shocked to hear this, not because he was caught in the expression that he lived, but he was realizing that they thought he was hit be a mortar shell. He remembered now what happened.

"I was not hit by the mortar"

"What?" the brigade commander exclaimed.

"I was injured, but I was carefully examining the ground in front of me. I found that the mortar wasn t the only explosive against us, it was also mines. I was about to disable one, until it went of in me face" Kowanski struggled to breathe while explaining is a large speech like that. It wasn t large, but for one with excruciating pain, it might as well be the longest speech in the world.

"I see but you re still hurt, and alive!" Private continued to smile. But the rejoicing was short.  
>The medical assistant entered the tent, the most saddest one in the canvas shelter. He took a breath. "The wound is mortal"<p>

Rico's jaw dropped. Colonel Rosen took off his hat, placed it over his heart.

"Private-", Kowanski began.

"This can t be, no, this cannot end like Skipper!" Private started on his eyes, leaking tears slowly down his face.

Those words rung in their ears. Even the great Ricardo Bernare started to cry. Rosen looked at him, he never saw the heartless, powerful, killing machine Rico, ever shed a single tear. The medic patted him on the back, Rico pushed the medic s arm away.  
>Private took hold of Kowanski s hand.<p>

"Please No, Private, do not doubt fate, it has chosen it s will" Kowanski said as one of his last dying words.

"Fate" Private uttered as if he were stating a curse.

"Life is a funny thing. Just remember this. God give me the strength to except the things I cannot change..",

Then, the skin under the feathers of Adelbert Kowanski, Major of the 25th Parisian Guard, Sharpshooter, went pale.


	3. The Third Brigade

**August 4, 1917**

The sky was clear of clouds in a hot day in August, a warm breeze would occasionally spring up, walking the soldiers of the French and British army somewhat in a flatland terrain of Southern Germany. A base camp was settled in. The second regiment, the British men, Royal Rifles was lead by Lt. Col. Private, an odd name the one thought, because it made him think of the impression that a private was a Lieutenant Colonel. But what he thought at that moment was highly different, nothing of odd names or credulous rankings. It was about the loss of the good friends. How, he thought, could something happen like that?  
>Sitting down at the floor of his tent, Private sighed, promotion was never in his mind, but him commanding a regiment when it was only a month after Adelbert Kowanski s death was buzzing in his head. How am I to lead a regiment how am I to go off marching in command of 233 people? Most importantly, how am I going to face the fact that men will die and there is nothing I can do about it?.<br>Kowanski s words still rang like a distant church bell,_ Never doubt fate_. The words were as calm and as true as his voice told him. But that never did change the fact that both Skipper and Adelbert were gone. Gone off, in through the horrors of bloodshed and gore, the ripping of limb and leg, the horrors of war.  
>Of course, there was still Ricardo Bernare, Rico as he, or everybody else called him. He could speak mixed English, but enough for Private to understand. Bernare was second in command of the brigade, personally promoted by the Brigade Commander, Colonel Rosen. Colonel Felix Rosen was a Frenchman, a Chinstrap, a black-beak, a Colonel. Rosen had a sad past, he was born French, in the Northern parts of France. His family was born into the middle parts of aristocracy, as the communists in Germany referred to it, the Bourgeoisie. Soon, his family was consumed by debt, having them live in poverty. They slowly rose back, but not as rich as they were before.<p>

Rosen had been in charge of the brigade since the early days of 1916, two years into the Great War and the year Skipper came and died. Rosen was no ordinary Colonel. He was addicted to the theme of old style combat. No, he was not old, but he usually liked the ways of line fighting and sword-use. Unfortunately for him, ever since mortar, machine guns, and flamethrowers came to use, line attack has since been dropped, disbanded, unused, and not helping. Not just not helping, but led to massacre.

Private looked around the tent, then out of his laziness, crouched up, went out of the tent, and stood straight and overlooked the mass of the entire division camping in order. Eating, drilling, training, all with 5,000 men of France and Britain.

"Colonel, there s eggs and bacon down at the stand", a soldier of the Royal Rifles pointed to the fire for Private to coordinate.  
>The Briton didn t reply vocally, but nodded and went off to claim two strips of bacon and an egg. Cold, hard, biscuits where served with them as well, hardtack. Crackers that where hard as tack, obvious really by the namesake. Private picked a biscuit out of the bin and placed it on his plate, or in this case, his metal cover. The plates for the soldiers where usually just flat metal plates that were eerily covered in grease when they started using them.<p>

"Good food", announced Ricardo, sitting right next to his British friend.

Private jumped a small bit, figuring out that Rico was there. He didn t take the time to look where he sat. He was just hungry. Hungry both for food and for the past that he wished happened, hungry...

* * *

><p><em>"Life is a funny thing... God give me strength to except the things I cannot change..."<em>

* * *

><p>Battle usually began with the scattering and the dying of men, the entering of trenches, and the smell of gunpowder.<p>

Grenades thrown, bullets, shot, and mortar, fired. Like any battle, there would be the colours. And behind every good colour standard, an equally good colour standard holder. But enough about the person holding it, the flag of the brigade was a white triangular flag with a blue border and a red Maltese cross within it. This replaced the old Union Jack that was too blood soaked to be used. But now, even in it's newly shipped use, white parts of the flag where already red with bloodstain as the colour bearer was shot or mowed down.

The flag, in this brigade, was never to touch the ground, as the Union Jack had did in previous battles. It wasn t a tradition or an order to keep it up, it. It didnt feel right to leave the flag on the ground. That code was kept by Felix Rosen in the previous battles. Now, here he was, once again with the colour bearer, yelling out orders like any officer would.

"Hurry! Steady! Keep pace Boys!" announced the bloodied Rosen, stained with blood from men beside him being shot by the new cursed machine guns, trying though to keep the brigade morale steady. But of course, with the machine guns and the mortar barrage, not one, even the most bravest of all in the division, could go in that territory called no man's land and get out of it completely unshaken. There was a reason it was called no man's land. One by one, or possibly better, two by two, soldiers were on the ground each minute, pools of blood soaking shirts and feet as the men from the brigade ran on, already too scared to almost not carry their rifle or wear their hats as a show in pride that they are the enemy, and that they are the targets. The standard bearer was the most flashy, and the month before, Rosen had lost 14 standard bearers. Here, now, it was different. He did not lose 14, not 13, not 12, not 10. Carrying the flag, 37 died trying to hold it high.

Felix stopped, turned back, and saw that more than a third of his entire brigade has been shot, hit by mortar. Yet, out of all of this slaughter and chaos, the valiant and brave men of the third brigade, 1 division, Seventh Corps, kept their stance, even as tired and scared they were.

Rosen, stunned by the losses now, his brigade dwindling in size at a small 1,009 men, (he started with 1,800), ordered the men to retreat. Private, leading his now 120 Royal Rifles, cut, and bloody, couldn t agree more. The men limped as they sprinted back to camp through the trenches. Felix G. Rosen twitched as he heard the squish of flesh and blood, and the moans of the mortally wounded, as the day turned into dawn, and dawn turning into night. For once, the stars couldn t be seen on a clear night.

Rosen and Private both thought that, these seasoned soldiers wanted to keep fighting, but were called back by not the fear in their hearts, but by their commanders.

* * *

><p>The fighting ended with Rosen s brigade not able to penetrate the next trench. Unfortunately for Rosen, he was given strict order to penetrate the trench. If he didn t, there was some punishment. There was always some type of punishment. People in the camp muttered and chatted about demotion, capital punishment, suspension, or court martial. Rosen had a good side fighting with him. He had the advantage of saying that he lost too much men to go on. A half of his brigade was captured, dead, or wounded. The only thing Felix could do that night was sit n his own tent, worrying about what will become of the next day.<p>

Morning went up with the smell of corpses being buried or shipped home for proper burial. This was certain to wake the troops that weren t woken already. Those awake stayed up the whole night tending for the wounded. One of them was Private. The Briton was as tired as Rosen who stayed up all that night as well, helping with Rico Bernare to patch up some wounds. Blood wasn t problem that day, the dirt in the ground seeped it in. But Private knew as sure it was, blood wasn t really good for gardeners.

Private crossed his arms as he stared at what remained of the Royal Rifles. There was 120 of them, 20 of whom where injured slightly. It was the young colonel s job to keep track of men that were dead and that were alive, he uttered to himself as he spoke the names of the dead in role call. He swore, then after a long pause and silently gave a prayer.  
>Rosen walked around the men, solemnly, and as sad as he ever was, the screams of the injured still lived out through the night. He thought, it sounded more like a diseased enemy prison rather than a brigade camp. The banner was ripped in two when the bearer was hit by artillery. The flag was taken back to the headquarters to be repaired. If there was one thing certain, the brigadier had in mind, was that this lot wouldn t be in for action anytime soon, hopefully. Surely, he wasn't going to see action either.<br>Colonel Felix Rosen was to be suspended for 2 months, as suggested by the division commander, General Scranton, who replaced the dead General Halleck (who choked on a piece of steak while taunting his own soldiers about how being a general has it's high profits). But as strict Scranton was, he let Rosen go on for one last battle. And hell, was he unknowingly true of that.

Rosen for the rest of the day, sat down in agony of what happened. Gone, a half of the brigade whisked away, forever, never to be seen again.

Always...

Private walked to Rosen's tent, peered his head in to see the melancholy brigade commander with his head down, facing opposite from Private's direction.

"Felix, God give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change...", Private slipped away then, walking back to the rest of the camp.

* * *

><p><em>Rosen was alone in his tent that night. The last one to sleep. His tent was illuminated by a single wax candle. A small portable table at one corner had on top of it a prayer book and a bible, some papers, and photographs of his family. Quietly, he began to pray.<em>

* * *

><p>The entire third brigade, what was left of it and good to fight was lines up in one position at a lower part of a hill incline. Ricardo and Rosen stood there at the top and highest part of the hill, looking at the 980-so men left. His voice almost breaking and his throat hard to keep down, Felix looked, and opened his mouth.<p>

"Men of the third brigade! France, England. Since 1914, you have broken the barriers and the standards of this generation of soldiers. men, you lot have been chosen to fight for our countries and all of us and the people waiting for you at home. You have been beaten, struck down, bloodied. You have forced and scared the enemy on his own foreign land! The Germans have done onto you what evil can do the most of. But you are the one s who kept going when all others have failed. The ones who went forth when all others have fled. The one s who kept going when others fell back. It has been the most pleasure working with you. Men, do not forget what you are. What are you? You may ask. You are the third brigade! The third brigade of the first division of the Seventh Corps! The same third brigade, whom from 1914 beat through the defenses in Strauff, captured the colors of the German Ironheads in the summer of 1915, and endured the pain of the charge just days ago. You men have been brought forth here by your will, not by some man signing you up on paper. You have been brought up here by you determination to keep invaders from infiltrating our homes and shores, not from a coincidence. The third brigade that stands before me now has marched far and went far. Most of all, you have proved far beyond yourselves, from before you were here today, to sit and stand and march like military men! Remember you are the Third Brigade!"

The men of the said lot cheered, waved their hats up in the air and chanted their name, the cry of Third Brigade! were heard upon the enemy lines. But all the enemy would do at that moment was watch in awe as the sound of British and French men raised their voices in the name of their group. Suddenly, the rejoicing was put to a stop.

Just as about as Rosen was going to turn around and order charge, and as Rico was about to join the rest of the brigade, Felix opened his mouth, but the things coming from his mouth was not vocalization. It was blood. Profuse firing and vigorous yells of hate in a language that no one in the brigade could understand. The Germans did the impossible. They did the possible worst, they took away Colonel Felix Rosen.


	4. Authors Note

This story was created by inspiration from many World War I movies (most notably Joyeux Noel and The Lost Battalion,  
>which belong to their owners), and this particular trilogy of World War I stories, yet, remains along the lines of "Band of Brothers", a wonderful rendition of a true Band in World War I. "Tools of Death" here, was hard to write, not because of the length, nor the ideas it has portrayed here, not the essence of typing in every small detail, but killing of characters that you know and like,<br>but that will happen in many cases of both fiction and real life. This account, obviously, has no place in what really happened in the four years of the fighting in the First World War, but does not discount what men had to go through, the hardships,  
>of war. All the deeds forever accomplished by men on both sides would be immortalized on the battlefields, in history,<br>and their tensions of combat's results, should never, be forgotten. 


End file.
